Rummages Across the Dead Land: Book IV

By A Bandopadhyay

A parent can be a number of things to a child, but it's rare to find a heartless parent. Their unconditional care is neither something to be taken for granted, nor feel entitled to, though most of us have always been guilty of making these mistakes. Growing up, my perception of my father was one of mixed understanding. He was considered by most to be a decentred individual who wasted his talent and potential in favor of addiction, a brilliant man of many vices and harbinger of suffering to his family. However, despite his many faults, he was to me a man of singular kindness, who tried to shield me from his own darker nature during my formative years. Upon a time when both he and I were stripped of our guardians, he took it upon himself to set aside his dreams and predispositions, and did whatever it took, within his hard-earned and meagre means, to provide me with an education. Reducing himself to a human being with fewer and fewer needs, he became a bulwark that protected and sustained me in times of dearth, uncertainty, and emotional upheaval, and largely made me the man I am today.

This book was written in the days, weeks, and months following the sudden and unexpected death of my father. The poems venture into inconsolable symptoms of loss, grief, guilt, regret, memory, madness, absurd irreversibility, chimerical conjurings, and reigning despair. You may not find much comfort here, dear reader, if you should so choose to read this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Bandopadhyay
• Release date: Oct 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463285985

Book preview

RUMMAGES ACROSS

THE DEAD LAND

Book IV

THE MAGIC MAN

IV

For the memory of my Father—a man

of euphoric mind and boundless spirit—Dr. Argha Banerjee.

... ... ...

The Mourner’s Writ

It is

to run slower,

to walk

at the pace

of despair.. that

moves to surround

and devour the whole

of what keeps

the mind.

It is

to not just be

haunted.. but also

to face

the hollows..

collect

the roar from winds..

patterns from thunder..

to hold still ..the rustle

betwixt cold fingers, and

try

to spell

a picture.

A Trace

An essence

of something... unmistakable more

than

our mortality,

lingered.. in the perfume of his study.

What Next?

Is too much

of a bad question

to ask

a thinking-man,

who mostly

spends most

of the next moment

somewhere... in the past;

for the past,

in experiencing,

was… reality, in

reliving is unreality

of dreams…

while a future..

a lone eventuality - in all of now,

is inscrutable myth!

for hardly

do dreams

entail a future.

Will-o’-the-wisp

It's strange

how...

in